“Oh, my God! You look just like Michelle!”

This was the comment I received after meeting someone for the first time back in the 80s. The introduction was from my roommate to her childhood friend. The referenced Michelle was another friend from their hometown.

“Can you believe how much she looks like Michelle?” she commented to my roommate.

My new acquaintance then turned back to me.

“Do you know Michelle? Are you related?”

No and no were my answers. I had never met Michelle. But my curiosity peaked.

It was the summer of 1987 and I was twenty years old. Living with a few college friends, we worked local jobs until classes started up again in the fall.

Two of my roommates came from the same hometown with the said Michelle. As their friends came to visit that summer, the frequent comment I heard was that of my spitting image, this girl named Michelle.

The time finally arrived when Michelle and I were to meet. We were planning a big party with some of my roommates’ hometown friends coming to join our festivities. Michelle was part of this group.

These were the days before cell phone photos or social media. Without these tools, I hadn’t a means to assess in advance our professed identical features.

With the party in full gear, I felt a tug at my sleeve.

“Come on. You and Michelle have to meet each other. She’s over here!”

Paraded to the living room, Michelle and I were pushed face-to-face, staring at what we were told was a mirror image. As our eyes met, we stood perfectly still with no words. I clearly remember what I was thinking with Michelle’s eyes relaying the same reaction.

“THIS is what I look like?? NOOOOO!”

People prodded us to take a picture and we resisted. They eventually lost interest and moved back to the keg.

The assumption was that we would become instant friends, our similar looks giving a perceived soul-sister vibe. But it was not meant to be. After some exchanged pleasantries and a joint feeling of water being thrown in our identical faces, Michelle and I went our separate ways.

Both of us took extra strides to avoid each other for the rest of the night. Neither wanted another reminder that we looked like someone we didn’t want to be.

Looking back at the various photos taken at the party (none of which were of me and Michelle together), I’m not sure who I wanted to look like. Perhaps being mistaken for Demi Moore was high on my list that summer of 1987? I didn’t want to look like the person I saw in the mirror, the one who looked like Michelle.

I recently read an excerpt from a popular commencement speech. “Thirty years from now you’ll pull out pictures of yourself taken on this day and realize you were stunning. You can’t see it now because you’re comparing yourself to the person next to you.”

This resonated with me as I find myself sorting through boxes of old pictures these days. In certain photos, I remember how I felt at that time. Sometimes I was feeling fat or just too ordinary looking. How much time did I spend comparing myself to other people rather than feeling the pretty color of youth that I now see in the photos?

I never ran into Michelle again. It would have been interesting to see if we would get the same likeness comments as we did 35 years before. Aging is a fickle beast. Although we can remain the same youthful person inside, the smoothness of our face and the elasticity of our skin does have a shelf life. We fight for the continued youthfulness of our bodily features, but we really have little control. That is just life.

There were other instances in my early adult years when I was mistaken for other women. Sometimes these cases of mistaken identity turned out to be a compliment. Although I knew there was no resemblance, I reveled in pride when I was mistaken for the cutest girl from my high school graduating class. It was at a shopping mall after work in the early 90s. I clearly remember the bright blue suit I was wearing while I beamed at the thought of being mistaken for the ‘pretty girl’.

When my boys were in grade school in the early 2000s, I was once asked by a teacher to volunteer as a chaperone for a class in which I didn’t have a child. She thought I was another mother. I would later be mistaken for this same woman on several occasions. I wondered how the other mother felt about this comparison as she seemed to avoid me in the school hallways. She was thinner and younger than me. Was I her ‘Michelle’?

It has taken me years to understand the difference between outward appearances and true identity. Too often we take to heart comments made from surface relationships, whether intentionally mean or not. Resemblances are like small talk. They are easy conversations with people you don’t really know.

Those who truly know you, recognize you for who you really are. From the glimmer in your eye when you share a funny story to a particular expression that relays your sadness, identity is understood at a deeper level than your given looks.

My husband, Garrett, is often told that he looks like the actor, Ed Harris. While he hasn’t minded this comparison in the past, the difference in age is now more apparent with Ed 15 years his senior. Looking at the older Ed Harris of today, you would think there would be thoughts of “Is this how I’m going to look?”

Instead, Garrett, not one to worry about who he looks like now, also doesn’t waste thought over who he will look like in the future. He blesses me with the same grace he gives himself by never making comparisons of me to others. Garrett has always embraced my true identity.

Being fully recognized by those close to you should be the only opinion that matters. And as far as aging goes, as long as we are living, we are aging. What we can control is working toward the best version of ourselves at the true age we are.

Recently I experienced another case of mistaken identity. This time it was me making the mistake. I offended someone with my quickness in speaking first and thinking later.

I was at the local tavern, entertaining my father-in-law. We went to the tavern early as it was his preference to be home before dark. This was at the same time many of the older bikers in town patronized this favored watering hole. The aging men with flowing grey ponytails also preferred to ride their motorcycles home with the assistance of daylight.

Engaging in small talk with this group of 70ish-year-old men, I noticed the many similarities that existed in their hairstyles, clothing and a shared passion for motorcycles. On this particular outing to the tavern, I sat across the table from a man who had a bird perched on his shoulder. The others at the table called him The Birdman.

I conversed with The Birdman as his large white cockatoo flapped around the bar. He beamed with pride as the bird obediently returned from a flight to his owner’s shoulder. I also noticed that The Birdman’s denim shirt was soiled from his beloved flying pet.

A few weeks later I was back at the tavern. Arriving with my father-in-law at our typical early time with what looked like the typical older biking bar crowd, I took my same seat at the table. Across from me sat a 70ish-year-old man with a long gray ponytail, wearing a denim shirt.

Without thinking I asked the fatal question…

“Where’s your bird?”

The man: “What?”

I now took notice of a woman sitting next to him with matching long grey hair and wearing top-to-bottom denim clothing. His sister? I wondered. But this time I kept the thought to myself.

The man turned to the woman, who I now understood to be his wife. He was visibly agitated.

The man: “She thinks I’m The Birdman!”

The wife calmly answered: “You look nothing like The Birdman. Not at all.”

She patted his arm while throwing a quick scowl my way. The man, who was obviously not The Birdman, sat across the table from me avoiding further eye contact.

Finally, after many uncomfortable minutes of silence, his wife took him by the arm moving them to another table mumbling “You don’t look anything like The Birdman. Come on.”

With no white cockatoo following their trail across the bar, I sat in horror regretting my words of mistaken identity. I obviously hurt the man’s feelings. Perhaps he was quite a bit younger than The Birdman. Was it an aging insult? Maybe it was the dirtiness of the bird that offended him?

I do believe that his wife saw no resemblance between The Birdman and her husband. She saw the real man. I only associated the superficial sameness of hairstyle, clothing type, and the proximity of seating position. Perhaps the man who was not The Birdman had just looked at a photo of a younger version of himself wondering how he now compared. My comment could have been a fresh insult.

I will likely not have the opportunity to apologize. I’m sure they will never sit by me at the tavern again. Well, that is if they even recognize me…